


Perfection

by profdreamer



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Yet another old drabble from back in the day, hanging cw, noose cw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 17:50:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10599090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profdreamer/pseuds/profdreamer
Summary: Neophytes are taught to make their own ropes...





	

Neophytes are taught to make their own ropes.

Whether the goal of this mundane activity is to instill discipline or give a closer connection to one’s instrument of retribution, she isn’t sure. Twisting together endless lengths of scratchy twine is commonly used as punishment to reign in the more feisty legislacerators-in-training, but they are all taught the task at one point or another.

Unlike her peers, she doesn’t mind it.

She isn’t about to let her profigators know. She has the feeling she might be given less pleasant busywork if they found out that she enjoys the monotonous task.

Even when her hands begin to ache deep in their joints, she keeps twisting. Her eyes begin to itch and she wonders for a moment if having no sight would solve that problem. She cracks her knuckles, rubs her eyes, and continues.

The individual twists start to melt together in her mind as they always do after a while. The rough fibers rub her grey fingertips smooth, but she continues late into the day, falling into that welcoming trance that lulls her mind into serene silence.

Sometimes it’s the only mental respite she receives. The harrying thoughts that crackle and spark in her mind can be enough to squeeze the life out of her chest, and had even been enough to threaten the completion of her training. She had tried to medicate herself before in various ways, but has since stopped using soporific beverages for anything more serious than occasional social enjoyment.

She often wishes that medications for the mind existed, like they do for physical ills.

For now, her rope will do.

When she feels her handiwork one last time, not in her hands but around her neck, she can’t help but feel a sliver of pride. She knows each twist and each knot as well as her own body. Her rope is flawless, and is as much a part of her as her pointy horns, her smooth fingertips, and her legs, which barely support her weight as she is hoisted into the air.

If she has to die in the midst of a sloppy amateur mistake, with grimy hands clutching at her bright clothing and harsh voices vibrating through her aural tubes, she can at least find comfort in the one thing she managed to do right. If her actions and decisions can’t always be perfect, at least her handiwork remains solid. 

At least she has the pleasure of feeling scratchy perfection against her skin one last time. 


End file.
